


Geodesic

by wehdile



Series: novus ordo seclorum [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Mending Relationships, Post-Canon, Triangle Bill Cipher, Uneasy Truce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-26 08:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13231845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehdile/pseuds/wehdile
Summary: The shortest route between two points is a straight line, or in this case, an uneasy deal between enemies for some much needed parameters. Not that Bill's long standing record of deceit make negotiations any less arduous.△





	Geodesic

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops, another one-shot! While Grunkle Stan's laid back attitude may seem out of character, I figured that between him and Ford he's less likely to harbor a grudge and while capable of violence, knows Bill is powerless and thus isn't a threat. Plus a few months spent at sea with his brother hashing out their issues and fulfilling dreams of adventure has mellowed him out a touch. Ford, obviously, isn't as forgiving given their history. Enjoy!

Days pass, then a week and Bill is still confined to Ford’s room. He had done everything possible could to keep his mind occupied namely, going through Ford’s things. His closet, wardrobe, bookshelves, even the medicine cabinet in fits of overwhelming boredom. If it wasn't locked, Bill got into it, articles of clothing and toiletries strewn in his wake. It was merely a plus that it annoyed Sixer, Bill silently relishing how red his face turned after returning from a day of no doubt inane family activities.

Until Ford threatened to permanently lock him in the bunker. Behest of the standard disregard he placed on other people’s belongings, Bill cleaned up the routine mess that included Ford’s many, _many_ sweaters once his restlessness had been satisfied. (Not that Ford needed his help in making place a mess and not even the good kind of after party mess!) Sweaters that made surprisingly good bedding. A fact Bill discovered when he awoke, face down on the floor, scratchy wool an irritant against his bricks. There was no memory of passing out, only the brick chilling epiphany that he had been asleep. Asleep and, more importantly, vulnerable for the first time in millenia in the study of the human who would gladly dissect him if given the chance.

“Ugh, sweet Time Baby…” Worst of all, he felt no better for his stint of unconsciousness Stiff joints, pressure headache, and dry mouth. Almost like he'd had too many martinis dusted with stale Higgs bosons without any memories of a great evening.

”Bill?”

A boot, Ford's boot, prodded at Bill's side, and his voice grew closer with the squeak of shifting weight on old floorboards. “Whatever you're planning, I can safely say playing dead won't accomplish anything.”

A finger joined in the prodding, scraping fingernails enough to finally rouse a sluggish grunt. Turning his front plane away from the sweater he'd face planted into, Bill blinked, plucked a wool fiber off his eyelash. Besides him crouched Ford who, for the brief second they locked eye, wore an expression edging on concerned. Concern _for_ or _about_? Hard to say since it was gone the next second, Ford turning away with a more apt scowl in its place.

“What on earth were you doing on the _floor_?” Ford jabbed a finger first at Bill then at the pile of sweaters he sat on. “On my _clothes_?”

It was a stupid question. And it perturbed Bill enough that he fell back on sarcasm despite his own steadfast rules against pointless derision. “Jeez, I dunno.” Bill rubbed his eye, other hand firmly planted between his sprawled legs to keep from toppling forward. “Why would I be on the floor, prone, _not moving_? HM. I wonder.” Shooting Ford a glare for emphasis, he made to stand and quickly decided to remain seated. The unexpected wave of dizziness had been an unpleasant surprise, moving through Bill’s whole body with a force that made his (empty) stomach flip.

When was the last time he ate— really ate— and not just gotten wasted on martini after martini?

“Why don't _you_ tell _me_ , smart guy?” Another flinch from Ford but Bill’s already looked away, momentarily distracted by the sweater directly under his hand. It's the a clash of contrasting colors and patterns, reminiscent of Weirdmageddon that drew his eye, and when he shifted to get a better look, Bill’s eye drew into a tight frown.

“‘I SURVIVED THE BIZZALYPSE’.” Bill repeated in a flat voice, fingers scrunching up the fabric until wrinkles obscured the knitted text. “I did NOT put a quantumly entangled pin in Weirdmageddon for ya to go and ruin it with this...this crummy slogan!”

Grabbing a sleeve embroidered with a handsome rendition of himself, Bill looked up and was not surprised to see Sixer hadn't heard a word he'd said. Instead his gaze was unfocused, face glazed with that look of an impending (and glaringly obvious) epiphany, hand rubbing circles in he six o’ clock shadow of his chin. Too tired to speed up the process, Bill got to his feet with sweater sleeve still clutched in one hand. Time to find a scissor and destroy this abomination against Weirdmaggedon.

He’d gotten two steps toward the desk when Ford inhaled sharply. Not quite a gasp but damn close and a tell-tale precursor to speech. After all, Bill knew alllll the ins-and-outs of Sixer’s little idiosyncrasies, and turned with a hand on his hip to listen.

“Were you…” Theeeere it was. “Bill, were you sleeping?”

Bill raised his brow in mock shock. “Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. What's it to you?”

“I didn't- I never considered that possible! Fascinating!” He seemed to be talking to himself now, striding past Bill to retrieve a journal from a locked drawer. Bill follows, Ford chattering in that rapid fire of syllables reminiscent of when Bill had, while possessing his body, flushed Ford’s medication down the toilet just to see what would happen.

“It would only makes sense, I suppose, seeing as how you're no longer a being of pure energy,” Ford commented to the journal he had produced from a locked drawer, scribbling down note after note in a flurry of action. “Without an infinite energy supply you’d need to sleep, eat, breath even…” Then, slowly, he turned to look at Bill with a dangerous glint in his eye, rubbing his chin again.

“Hm… I wonder...”

Uh-oh. “What, are ya gonna dissect me like those aliens corpses?” Bill asked, gripping the sleeve tight like it'd make any sort of good weapon. He'd rather have a knife or...or anything with a blade when Sixer was scrutinizing him with the same expression he gave specimens that ended up in bottles of formaldehyde. (He didn't necessarily believe it would come to violence but, as a being who had been all powerful, Bill expected the worst from others. Especially Stanford.)

Ford visibly balked at the suggestion. “No! No, I would never perform a vivisection.” _Liar._ Shaking his head, Ford clung to his imaginary high ground, placing down the journal, hands still trembling from excitement. “I just want to know how much of you is...physical now.”

 _Wow._ They both stared at each other, unintentional innuendo slowly sinking in to the stretching silence. Bill could think of a trillion of comebacks to throw Fordsy off his back, but then sees a certain possibility he simply can’t ignore.

“...How about we make a deal?” Bill placed his hands on his waist, head tipped back for that laid back, casual look that did not match the calculating gleam in his eye. “It won't be like the whole 'let me into your mind shebang,” he clarified with the roll of the wrist, “but I'm a businessman who deals in deals. And today is your lucky day, IQ."

“What– Lucky? Hardly!” Ford looked as if Bill had just slapped him, slack jawed one moment then gritted teeth the next. “You’re nothing but a charlatan, Cipher.” A moment followed where, as Sixer looked away, lips pursed and eyes searching, that Bill knew he was at least considering the bait. Some things, and people, _never_ changed.

“...What do you propose?"

"I'll tell you a little about the great Bill Cipher if you let me have the run of the place.”

Sixer gaped at him, expression rebounding so swiftly from astonishment to disbelief Bill got whiplash just watching. “Absolutely not!” He sprang to his feet, stalking toward Bill in another empty posture of a threat. “You may be...contained, in this form, but you’re still a conniving con man who cannot be trusted.”

“Fine, have it your way. My lips,” Bill mimed zipping closed his eye, “are sealed.”

△

Bill was ready the next time Ford opened the door. “Ready to make a deal, Fordsy?” Bill asked from where he sat perched on the desk, legs crossed. Ford, dressed down in a pink turtleneck with a goofy looking star giving two six-fingered thumbs up on it, scowled reflexively at the triangle’s grating voice. In his hands he held a paper plate, a plate full of rich looking food that made Bill sit up a little straighter.

“No. Not a chance in hell, Cipher.” Ford nudged the door closed with his foot and came to the desk, setting the plate, complete with a plastic fork and knife, besides Bill. “However, seeing as how you're made of...flesh and blood now, I thought it prudent to bring you, well, dinner.”

And, as if it pained him to say it, added: “Mabel and Melody made it.”

“Huh.” Oh Circles he was hungry, starving actually. He had already eaten all of the snack bars hidden around Sixer’s room, and had even devoured a decade old snack food packet fished out from between the couch cushion. Potatoes and meat were easily identifiable, covered with a brown sauce and all lined with green...vegetables?

“What is it,” Bill asked, picking up the fork to stab its prongs into a chunk of potato.

”Potatoes, asparagus, turkey…” Ford listed off the items with a tick of each finger. “Gravity Falls has some very strange ordinances involving turkeys and thanksgiving related food...”

Sensing Ford is about to go into monologue mode, Bill quickly cut him off. “Oh yeah, I remember those. Wonder if they still have that one ordinance about cannibalism during food shortages… I’m KIDDIN’ Fordsy!” Bill cackled at the disgusted look on Ford’s face and promptly shoved the potato into his mouth. “Can’tcha take a joke?”

He laughed again, bits of potatoes flying, because it got Ford to leave a little more quickly and left Bill alone to devour his meal with ravenous abandon. It was delicious, rich with flavors that, while not as good as say a roasted child’s dream salted with pure fear, was the best meal Bill had ever eaten. It only made sense that his low points would be _low_ but Bill was certain he'd hit his upswing. Soon... Eventually.

△

A full week passed before Stanford finally relented, his presence betrayed by hurried footsteps and the key turning in the lock. Door thrown up like he was expecting Bill to jump out of the shadows and attach. Instead Sixer found Bill sitting on the floor, back against the couch and surrounded by every non-psychology related book in the room. Which were, surprise surprise, not many and seriously lacking in weirdness of any kind. So Bill had contended himself with the book _Language of Indigenous Tribes of Oregon: A Linguist’s Perspective_.

Sixer picked up right where they left off, stomping over to Bill to tower over him in what is meant to be an intimidating gesture. All it really accomplishes is blocking Bill's light. 

“What are your terms, _Cipher_?” Bill's surname may as well be a curse with the amount of malice Fordsy’s managed to pack into two mere syllables.

Bill didn't look up, turning a page to a detailed diagram of Kwalhioqua-Clatskanie vowel diacritic. “Doing just fine thanks for asking. How are you, oh, stubborn as ever I see.” Bill slammed the book shut, resting it on his lap to glare right back up at Ford. “See what I'm doing here?” Bill pointed at himself, then Ford, then back at himself. “Having a _conversation_?” 

He's met with silence. Ford, standing stock still, arms crossed over his chest with both hands curled into fist, glowered down at Bill. Noting the sweat on his brow, Bill stood up before fists started flying.

While there's no need to agitate Sixer any further, Bill couldn't help his nature. He crossed his arms right back at Sixer. “Glad ya finally came to your sense.”

“ _Bill_...” Sixer nearly growled, fingernails digging crescents into his palms.

“Ok, ok, don't have an aneurysm.” Holding up a hand up in appeasement, Bill hopped up on the couch to be eye level with Sixer before continuing. “Like I said, I get the run of the place and you get to ask me oh, five questions about yours truly every week.”

“Ten.”

“Four.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed. “Eight.”

“Didn't your mother ever teach you how to haggle?” Bill chided, shaking his head. “Three and that's my final offer. Take it or leave it.”

△

Of course Sixer agreed to Bill’s terms just like he always had and always would. Since Ford refused to shake hands they had settled on a written contract, Sixer putting down their terms in ink. Ink that Bill could not easily twist to his agenda.That was the nature of compromise and Bill _hated_ compromise. He thoroughly voiced these complaints, huffing and puffing even while he signed his name besides Ford’s neat, tidy script.

Eager to get his questioning underway, Ford dragged the desk chair to sit in front of the couch and Bill sat across from him. The whole setup was painfully formal, Bill able to perfectly visualize the process of formulating questions that Sixer’s mind is going through. After all he’d had uninterrupted access to it till Sixer had gone and put a metal plate between them.

Sixer’s pen paused and Bill knew they'd begun.

"Dimension of origin?"

"Nightmare Realm." After an intense stare from Ford, Bill sighed and rubbed his eye. "Fine, fine. It wasn't always such a happening place. Used to be a real snooze fest before I took over. I guess you could say it's where I'm from."

Bill squinted at the desk, weighing the pros and cons before deciding he had nothing more to lose. What use will his history be when, Frills be damned, he’s a being of pure energy again? "Sorta,” he shrugged, “It's where I grew up."

"You– you grew up?"

"What, didja think I popped outta the multiverse fully formed? A triangle as handsome and cunning as myself doesn't just happen overnight, Sixer.” Bill adjusted his bowtie, leaning forward to bat his eye at Ford. “But I’m flattered you think so highly of me.”

Sixer’s face contorted into a grimace, frown lines about his mouth growing more pronounced. “I _thought_ highly of you, once. But not anymore. Now you're no threat to anyone.” Gazes locked, Bill’s flitted down to catch sight of Ford’s trembling hand, tremors leaving jagged lines across the parchment.

Bill is the one to break their stalemate, glancing away with a soft 'tch’ and dismissive wave of the hand. “Eh, whatever. Things change. I won't count that by the by. You've got two more, use 'em wisely, Sixer.”

After a moment to compose himself, Ford moved on. “Any family?"

“Dead." Bill's gaze shifted, refusing to meet Ford's eye. 

Pen poised over the journal, Bill’s eye scrunched up at the pause between answer and scratch of ink against paper. He can only imagine what sort of scientific jargon Sixer is spewing into this new edition on Bill Cipher. An underline here and there and Ford looked back to Bill, actually licking the end of his pen like it were a quill. If he noticed Bill’s snort of amusement it was passed over for the third and final question of their little session.

“...Offspring?”

A pause, swiftly followed by a howl of laughter. “AHAHA!” Bill doubled over and struck a fist against his knee, his whole body scrunched up in effort not to topple off the chair. Sucking in a quick breath to continue his laughter, Bill’s eyelid parted to reveal a row of pearly white teeth as he chortled out each word. “Seriously, Sixer? You could ask me anything– _anything_ – and you wanna know if I have kids!? **HA**! Ahaha!” Pushing away the sticky combination of saliva and drool that’s collected at the corner of his eye, Bill wiped his hand on the couch cushion to Sixer’s ignored ire. “You’re a riot, Stanford. But nope, no little Bills running around.”

Ford’s visible, sudden, relaxation sent a surge of annoyance through his brickwork. Equilateral triangles were calculating merchants, and he, Bill Cipher, was the most calculating of all. He should want Fordsy to relax so he can get him wrapped back around his finger but the all knowing, all powerful being of pure energy he once was can’t be anything but agitated. Experience told Bill that mortals should tremble at the mere sight of him, bow at his feet and beg for their worthless lives - yet Sixer felt comfortable enough to keep his stun gun holstered.

He’d have to fix that.

△

Just as promised, Bill found the door to Sixer’s study open when he next tried the knob. Finally free to explore at his leisure, Bill’s first task is to find a weapon and then a way out of this miserable shack. He can hear the distance chatter of Question Mark from mystery portion of the place, making a mental note to poke around the giftshop later. If he could get Question Mark on his side… Well, that was another plan for another day.

Padding down the dusty hallway, Bill stopped to examine the various doors in order to update his mental map of the shack. Fez had redecorated and Question Mark had followed suit, peeling back wallpaper to reveal old doors that used to hold Sixer’s many inventions or experiments not dangerous enough to need serious lab equipment. He risked a peek behind the few unlocked door, found only junk and sentimental human trash. Disappointing but not unexpected. All the good stuff was below his feet in Sixer’s lab.

That was his next plan, getting down there. Engrossed in this particular plan, Bill doesn’t hear the blaring TV when he rounded the corner nor noticed the reclining figure in the lounge chair until it was too late to turn back. 

Bill froze, one foot poised to step over the threshold into the living room.

Stanley Pines stood, or rather sat, in his way.

“Fez,” Bill said, frozen in the doorway while his eye darted around the room for something, anything to look at besides _that_ face. He had expected Ford, Question Mark or this Melody person— NOT Stanley! 

“Triangle,” Fez replied without once taking his eyes off the TV screen. He drank from a beer bottle, dressed in a same god awful, stained wife beater, boxers, and slipper combination he'd worn in their last, shared memory.

Never had the idea of retreat been so appealing to Bill and he briefly entertained it, but the idea that Stanley might tell Ford of their encounter kept him rooted the spot. Oh, and fear too. Fear was definitely keeping Bill’s feet glued floorboard, kept the gears of his brain from turning at their typical lighting fast pace.

...He'd come this far, hadn't he? Puffing up his chest, Bill walked onto the shag carpeting and ran straight into Fez’s raised and very muscular calf that blocked his way. He pushed against it but he had no dominion on physical strength like this. Plus he had just touched a bunch of wrinkly human skin. Suppressing a shiver of revulsion, Bill discreetly wrung his hands together to try and get the human oils off.

“Whoa now.” Fez raised a bushy eyebrow, tassel dangling over his eyepatch. “Where do ya think you're going?”

Bill pushed again just for something to do. “What's it to you?” Then he realized there was a distinct lack of Pines around, looking to Stanley with a critical eye. “Why aren't you gallivanting around with Sixer and the brats?”

“Eh, I did my fair share of that yesterday.” Stanley proudly held up two heavily bandaged arms, splotches of fresh bruising poking out from beneath the gauze. “You would not believe how many punches it takes to knock a shapeshifting sonofabitch out cold.”

Bill did a quick calculation in his head. “37?”

A low whistle from Fez. “Pretty close. Didn't take you for a nerd.” Before Bill can present a counterpoint to that blatantly wrong assumption, Stanley's expression turned stoic. “But seriously, where are you going? Not gonna try anything funny?” That was a threat if Bill ever heard one and all of his joints locked up at once, staring straight ahead as he ran through the answers that would not get him drop kicked into the television.

“Course not. If I _could_ do anything, I would have already melted your face off and set this place on ablaze.” He snapped his fingers for good measure though nothing happened which was starting to dishearten Bill each time he tried. “...I’m just getting some grub.”

“Mhm. I'm watching you.” The foot went down, and Stanley sat up straighter in the old recliner. “Get me a beer will ya?”

Bill shot Fez the dirtiest glare he could, and made a point of bringing back a can of sugary soda instead. He tossed it to Fez, the man catching it with a grunt that Bill guessed was a thanks. What was it with Pines and their inability to utter a simple 'thank you’? Had he been alone he would have grabbed a carving knife but as it were, he'd been forced to settle on a package of dried jerky that was several months over its expiration date.

The sound of a crying child drew Bill's attention to the TV screen where two babies flailed in their respective corners of a boxing ring. Fighting was always entertaining but _children_ fighting? Downright hilarious.

“Whatcha watching?” he asked as one of the babies tumbled out of the ring to raucous applause.

“Baby Fights, reruns.” Fez cracked open the soda and downed half of it a single swig. “New season ain't as good so I’m revisiting the classics. Ya can't beat a good ol’ 1v1.” Then he looked at Bill, really looked at him, and asked: “Wanna watch?”

So Bill sat down with his murderer and watched toddler pummel each other to tears, enthusiasm growing with each successive match. It was stupid, mindless garbage but it was _fun_ mindless garbage and Bill was all about fun. It wasn't as if he and Stanley bonded or actually talked at all aside from making increasingly ludicrous bets on who would win or lose. It was simply a way to pass the time, Bill told himself as he sipped disgusting fermented grains from a brown beer bottle. Nothing more.

Maybe, just maybe, when he set off Weirdmageddon 2.0 he would keep Baby Fights around. Humans had _some_ good ideas after all.

△


End file.
